Under Wraps
by Sugar Skulls
Summary: Some things sweeten with age, and Willy Wonka rather likes teenage Charlie Bucket. A collection of Charlie/Willy drabbles. 2005 movie-verse.


**Under Wraps**

**By: **_Scrabble Drabbles_

**Summary: **_Some things sweeten with age, and Willy Wonka rather likes teenage Charlie Bucket. A collection of Charlie/Willy drabbles. 2005 movie-verse._

**Rating:** _T, for the obvious pedophilia that accompanies Charlie/Willy.. Oh, and sexuality.

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"What could be taking him so long?" Willy asked impatiently. "It's been half an hour! Charlie's school lets out at four!"

"Be patient, Willy," Mr. Bucket said calmly, though his fingers drummed on the tabletop anxiously. "Charlie is going to be a little late coming home today." He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Mrs. Bucket had to take a cab up to the school; Charlie's principal called."

"So?" Willy said tartly.

"_So_, that means Charlie has gotten in some type of trouble at school."

Willy blinked. Then he grinned widely, and laughed. "Ha! Funny. Charlie would never get in trouble. He's too…" He trailed off, thinking for a word. "I wanna say _wimpy_ but that doesn't really work. Too…sweet!" He fluttered his gloved fingers. "Charlie couldn't get in trouble, no sir-ee."

"Well, it certainly didn't sound like he was being kept late to accept an award, Willy," Mr. Bucket said wearily. He spread his hands wide. "But, who knows? You're right—it isn't like Charlie to get in trouble, and especially not like him to get sent to the principal's office."

"Exactly," Willy said smugly. "Let's not be so quick to assume the worst—"

The loud banging of the front door banging open cut him off. Alarmed at the ferocity of the sound, Willy looked around in concern while Mr. Bucket stood up.

"Inside!" Mrs. Bucket said in an unusually harsh tone that Willy had never heard her use. In came Charlie—fifteen years old and looking uncharacteristically surly. He stomped across the room, angrily tossing his book bag onto the table and throwing himself down into one of the chairs. He avoided everyone's gazes, choosing to glare at the ceiling.

Mrs. Bucket slammed the front door shut—everyone winced.

"Good Heavens!" Grandpa Joe exclaimed. "What's going on?"

"Willy, I'm afraid Charlie will not be joining you in your candy-making for the next month," Mrs. Bucket said in a dangerously quiet tone. "He's grounded."

"Grounded!?" Willy repeated in disbelief. _Grounded_—the word made him flinch. The term that grown-ups used to threaten children with, the term that meant the parents could tell children not to do their very favorite things. TV, computer, visiting friends, candy… Willy blanched, remembering.

"A _month!?_" Charlie exclaimed. His teeth ground together furiously. "Mum, that's not fair!"

"It most certainly _is_ fair!" Mrs. Bucket shot back. "And tell them why you're in such trouble, Charlie." She gestured to everyone in the tiny house: Willy, Mr. Bucket, and the two pairs of grandparents in the bed.

"Charlie," Mr. Bucket said sharply, looking at his son. "What happened at school, Charlie?"

Charlie set his jaw stubbornly—it was odd, seeing Charlie angry—and leaned back in his chair. He refused to answer. Mrs. Bucket exhaled shortly, impatiently, and answered for him.

"Charlie got in a _fight_ at school," she said. The family—plus Willy—gaped in shock.

"A fight!?" Mr. Bucket said, appalled.

"A _fight?_" said Grandpa Joe, shocked.

"A fight?" said Willy in wonder.

"A fight!" Grandpa George said, his tone a mixture of disapproval and appreciation.

"A fight?" gasped Grandma Josephine.

"A fight!" exclaimed Grandma Georgina happily. "How wonderful!"

"Yes," huffed Mrs. Bucket, upset, "a fight. And it is _not_ wonderful, Grandma Georgina."

"Charlie Bucket," Mr. Bucket said severely, "is that true? Did you get into a fight at school?"

Charlie avoided his father's furious glare, instead choosing to glower at the tabletop. "Yes, sir."

"Charlie!" The entire family gasped his name in varying degrees of dissatisfaction. Willy said nothing; he propped his elbows on top of the table, lacing his fingers and resting his chin on top of them. He pursed his lips, staring at Charlie from across the table with a speculative expression.

"I can't believe this!" Mr. Bucket said angrily. "Charlie, you know better than that! Violence solves nothing!"

"It did in my case," Charlie muttered darkly.

"It is completely unlike you to do this sort of thing," Mr. Bucket stormed, slamming his hands on the table. "You're normally an extremely well-behaved young man! Everyone knows that, isn't that right, Willy?"

Willy jumped a little, startled at being dragged into the conversation. "Oh, um, yeah. Polite and nice and all that…" His brow furrowed and he fell silent, looking at Charlie speculatively again.

"I _am_ well-behaved!" Charlie exploded angrily. "This is the first time I've ever gotten in trouble at school. It was Gregory Simmons' fault, anyhow!"

"You've broken Gregory Simmons' nose, Charlie!" Mrs. Bucket said. "So if you want to act like a child and point fingers, you definitely need to point the finger at yourself! I know Gregory is awfulto you, but that's no reason—"

"He's always been a right pisser towards me because we don't have a lot of money!" Charlie raged. "Always making fun of me because our house is here in the Factory!"

Willy was hurt. "I thought you liked living in my Factory, Charlie."

"I do," Charlie said impatiently. "But that doesn't mean I particularly like it when he shoots off his fat mouth like he actually knows what he's talking about!"

"It's no excuse," Mr. Bucket said irately, sitting back down and rubbing his forehead, stressed. "We've told you countless times, Charlie, to not let Gregory get to you."

"A _fight_," Mrs. Bucket said, sounding terribly distressed. "Really, Charlie, we raised you to know that fighting is not to solution when someone upsets you! Right, Willy?"

Why did they keep dragging him into this? "Yeah! Yeah. Fighting is, um, bad."

Charlie glared sourly at him, then looked back at his parents. "I tried to solve it with words at first, if that makes you happy. I told him to shut up because he was making himself look stupid. But when he made it clear that he wasn't going to shut his mouth, and he started insulting Mr. Wonka, I decided I should shut his mouth for him." Charlie snapped his glare onto Willy and pointed a finger at him; Willy noticed that his knuckles were a nasty shade of black and blue, with several bloody scrapes across them. "I was defending _you_ when I swung the first punch!"

"That's enough!" Mr. Bucket said loudly. "Charlie, you're definitely grounded for a month."

"Dad!" Charlie was outraged. Mr. Bucket silenced him and stood up again.

"You will not argue with me about this," he said sharply. "Grounded. A month. No candy-making." To Willy, he said, "Sorry, Willy, you'll have to make due without Charlie for the next thirty days." He returned his glare to Charlie and pointed out the front door. "Go to your room. You'll not be having supper tonight."

Charlie glared furiously at Mr. Bucket and stood up. The chair clattered angrily behind him, and he grabbed his book bag. He stalked out of the house and into the colorful candy forest of the Factory. He slammed the door noisily behind him and called for the elevator to take him to his room. There was a heavy silence in his wake. Slowly, Mr. Bucket lowered himself back into his chair.

He heaved a sigh and asked Mrs. Bucket, "Did he really break that boy's nose, dear?"

Mrs. Bucket gave him a weary, humorless smile. "I'm fairly sure. Gregory was in the office as well with lots of bloody bandages over his nose. Two black eyes, as well." She sat down as well and put her face in her hands. "Charlie did quite a number on that boy."

"He looked right as rain when he was in here," Grandpa George observed. "Not a scratch on him, except for those banged up knuckles. I take it Charlie won this particular fight. Who knew he had it in him?"

"We're not praising him, Pop," Mr. Bucket reminded him. "This is totally out of character for Charlie."

"What happened to my sweet, innocent little baby?" Mrs. Bucket said sadly.

"I'm sure he's still your baby," Willy said brightly. "It just must be all that doggone testosterone crammed into that teenage body of his!" He stood up and grabbed his cane. "I'll go talk to him. Bye, now!" He waved at the Buckets and exited the little house.

Willy called for the glass elevator, and it glided smoothly down to him. Stepping inside, he pressed the button named _CHARLIE'S ROOM (Reminder: Knock first even though it's annoying and it _is_ your Factory but just swallow your pride and deal with it because Charlie acts like a baby when you barge in like you own the place—which you do.)_ The elevator rocked up hundreds of floors and jolted violently to a halt in front of a simple, nondescript silver door. Making a displeased face, Willy knocked.

"I don't want to talk," Charlie's voice came from inside. "Go away."

Naturally, Willy let himself in, as he always did when Charlie was upset and didn't want him inside. Charlie stood in the center of the bedroom, his shirt peeled off and held out in front of him. He was examining two large bloodstains splattered on the front, clearly wondering if it would wash out completely. He cast an annoyed look at Willy.

"Yes, come inside, Willy," he muttered, his eyes returning to his shirt. "By all means, please, do come in." With a heavy sigh, Charlie tossed the ruined shirt on the ground, deeming it a lost cause. He sat down on the edge of his bed with a grunt, and rested his elbows on his knees. He examined his knuckles, taking in the minor injuries.

"I know you're here to scold me for getting myself grounded," he sighed, his voice still slightly bitter. He wasn't shouting anymore, however, so Willy took that as a good sign. "I'm sorry I won't be able to work with you for the next month. But I wasn't going to let Gregory Simmons call you a faggot and a pedophile—" briefly, Charlie smirked, "—even if it's technically true." He flopped onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. "But don't worry, Willy, you won't have to worry about anymore fights. Gregory won't bother me again, after that beating." A wry smirk twisted his lips, and a dry chuckle escaped them. "I broke his nose, you know." There was a pause, then Charlie pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and groaned loudly. "What's _wrong_ with me? I shouldn't be happy about that!"

"I like it!" Willy blurted out. Charlie lowered his hands and peered at him in confusion.

"I bed your pardon?"

"Well, maybe not the violence part, exactly," Willy allowed, then grinned widely. "But you've got this 'bad boy' thing going on right now! And I think I like it."

Charlie stared at him, then sat up. He laughed incredulously at Willy. "A _bad boy_ thing?"

Willy took off his hat and threw it in the air excitedly, twirling in place before it came back down. "Yeah! You were defending my honor when you let that kid have it!" He placed a hand on his hip. "I'm beginning to wonder who really wears the pants in this relationship, now."

Charlie grinned. "You've been telling me that it was you, since you're taller and older, but I've been the boy in this, really."

"Frankly, I don't even care anymore," Willy said happily. "You gave that Gregory Simmons a bloody nose and two black eyes, according to your mother!" He pointed at Charlie's bloodied, bruised knuckles. "Sorry if those hurt, Charlie, but I think they're _really_ starting to turn me on, here."

Charlie flexed his fingers, clenching his fists and relaxing them, and said smugly, "Nothing's broken, so I was going to just put some bandages on these scrapes and ice on the bruises. But if it has to wait—"

"It has to wait," said Willy, shedding his coat. "You top tonight."

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**Author's Note: **_I am so fucked up. :D_


End file.
